Penguin
the "Penguin" You thought they ated fishies, didn't yous? Hah for this in Ours lives, these were chaste about it, surely, but reckoning you to some better understanding, they do not "ated" the "fishies" they eat them. All. Up. God that's annoying. Please, tell me yous have somethings for us, chosen ones? It's a quote, that there is, and it's to the club manager, club owner, however you'd put tu him, for surely whoever you'd talked to, and surely, if you could trap penguin Shared so, held on, IF you held a pengiun hostage, you'd have to start calling one the other, and the other, one, surely that they could be deceived by you into believing this segment of reality was their only vices, and shared, it was, that they could TAKE from us's, and know abouts us! IF you could find him, as Batman and Robin could often do, the club owner, manager, might have to change something, first, in your, countenances? Cobblepot, was a name kept secret, and so surely it would be one such creature, who could find out, this secret name, and deform himself so grotesquely, that you'd never for a moment, doubt it was the one in all the rumours, of the, real owner? Shared this, that the manager seem'd, quite gorgeous, charming, strange, sundering, and like he could fly and spent time in the ice, was just for his friends there, or some measure of convenience, did you think? "Did you.. you wanted the manager, or, or the owner of ALL the clubs, 'On the Ice,' I mean. "The club owner, please." "He's not.." he'd wonder at you, and say, "in?" "Who are you then?" "Intuit me a name, if you like." Shared? That they could be seeking the penguin, surely this manager might, the gorgeous one, I mean, might, think you meant him, as he handled most all of these affairs, shared, completely, but that, then, he could tell you he detested the nickname, but most meant nothing of it, but the, the owner, well no, he's not me, he's, hideous. idiotic. simple. strange. grotesque, even. Cobblepot, was a name you could learn about scarcely, but there again, there was no such thing as a cobbler, peach or otherwise, that you should put into a pot, or you would have mush, to deal with. "Bird, then," he said of this manager, intuiting a name, and not a particularly bad one, even, "Who's to tell what you are, and for what I was sent?" Change in trickier circumstances could beget you, that this man was wealthy, and not disgusting, so surely could the criminal underground have harder than yours, did you think, of a time coming to find out about him and his, shady, business deals? But if you could imagine, how few people, "Oh, no, did you want to hear something real, then?" he could say to you, of the Cobblepot, in his decent imaginings of the grotesque figure; "he carries a gun umbrella," and surely, "an umbrella gun? no, a gun, umbrella. In real life. This is real; he carries a gun umbrella." Shurdly, that this was, caste, about in the universe, for sure such as one so grotesque, in all his countenances, as you would imagine him deforming himself, over these sates bellows, to resemble the rumours put forthe by this, club manager, some bird, surely, or Bird, as some could say in a glimpse of intuition, thereon, you could imagine that she's not interested in any but the wealthy, but that he was wealthy already and in no need of whores, could you scarcely come never, never at all, could you tempt him, with whores, but the, well in secret for the name of the grotesque one, this, owner, surely, him? The penguin? The manager was often called such, depending on who thought what was seeking out mischief from where, but tat there was this other, he was insatiable, and sickening, and nothing more pleasing to him could you imagine, was the screams of a woman or any, bedded tu with him, like a slave tu be raped, by his own wealth, this therein, and he had no mark for bravery or merit, in you? Surely the classier the whore the less, he noticed? Just give him one, and sign your own death certificates over it, because likely or not, he wouldn't miss her face when he chewed it off, for looking at him, and the club managers, sure, Bird, detested slavers, human traffickers of all kinds, "There's no need for it," he'd say to you; "He doesn't give a shit about them or the opportunity at them, won't think better of you for it, but you'll have some creature in disgust and filth and anguish along with him. What was it you wanted, again?" So shared, where was he? This grotesque figure? one, there'd been, deformed, surely, maimed, forgotten, another had been though, there again, and there seemed no end to just how many people thought they could just, 'grab at' the wealth and staff in establishment, for resembling this grotesque figure in all that he was. Surely that they could carry gun umbrellas, and be marred as fat squat turtle doves or, hideous monsters, did you think? When the one they'd been luring, became what he'd need, for this surest grab of power, the extra s's were new, and what, invented? sharedly, by him, and that he could have, piques, of interest, you hadn't heard rumors of? Surely not, for this was Cobblepot, and everything foul and detestable you'd ever had said about this 'real owner' and criminal undercurrent sickophantom, would be true. Yes, also he was carrying a gun umbrella, and found himself being served and waited on surely, imemdiately, or some time after, by the staff of one man, who surely, owned everything he wanted about the place, and that he could, bankroll you, should sound stupid, for theirs that, "You have your money already." "Who'd you think was in charge here, Bird?" And he'd kick the shit out of him, whoever it was, but there in less than that, this, truer Cobblepot, of rumour and myth of all the ugly, could appear to need no weatlh? Surely, that he'd been bedded in by criminals seeming to recognize him straight away, there in the club he'd appeared in. Shortly though, that this could skate any ears, you could imagine well, he'd carried a gun umbrella in, anyway, but shared to be theirs in all that you were before... Batman and Robin, need never have been called, did you think? "Matches. Matches Malone, how for ya doin', what, in the fuck, are you, exactly?" "Batman says we're supposed to lean on you, today," could say Robin, or some bird, surely, and his father the manager could say of it, "Me, or, the penguin?" "I don't know," he wondered, "Did they call you that yet today?" As in, have you learned anything new, father? "Surely," he could say of it, to this boy in a suit, who was, okay tuxedo, who was scarcely ever not Dick Grayson, but some form another of names, who was, inexplicably without ID, but rich, in a club consorting with the criminal underground, what haveyou? Fathers are something to choose for yourself, in a free world, and that this child could know he had a brother at home of ancient reckoning, was always true, but there that specietation could lie to you, and tell you just what a bird could do, when left, on the ice, as you saiyd.